


My, My Oyster Card

by nerdythangs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale is "just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing" (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Penis (Good Omens), Crowley does not say ngk, Explicit Consent, Hand Jobs, He/Him Pronouns For Aziraphale (Good Omens), He/Him Pronouns For Crowley (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Missing Scene, My ode to public transit, Public Sex, Public Transportation, hand jobs in back of the bus, vampire bats
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-23
Updated: 2020-07-23
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:28:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,803
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25454692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nerdythangs/pseuds/nerdythangs
Summary: “Yeah, no one cares,” Crowley said, taking another swig as if that were to prove his point, “plus we just saved the world. We deserve it.” He offered the bottle again to Aziraphale, jiggling it a little bit as if the sound of the wine splashing inside would make it more enticing or permissible.If he were a lesser man, Aziraphale might have rolled his eyes. Instead his lips drew into a thin line and he tilted his head pointedly, eying Crowley’s sunglasses sternly.Crowley shook the bottle again in offering without breaking eye contact.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 36
Kudos: 218





	My, My Oyster Card

**Author's Note:**

> Oh heyyy this is the first thing I've written in over a year, and the first thing I've written for Good Omens *high five emoji*. 
> 
> Thanks to my forever beta tasty-kate, and also to racketghost for letting me scream at her.

There was no inherent eroticism in sharing a bottle of wine.

Or at least that’s what Aziraphale tried to tell himself.

As they waited on the bench (they _did_ tend to gravitate towards benches, didn’t they? And never the ones with socially appropriate armrests down the middle, no. They created that space between them, naturally, for thousands of years) for a bus that would miraculously take them to London, scheduled final destination be damned, Principality Aziraphale was not fretting about the things he should have been fretting about. Any logical, rational being would probably be twisting and turning in their minds the transgressions and trespasses of the day, and my, there were many on that particular day. Defying both heaven and hell and averting the apocalypse was probably on top of the list.

But instead Aziraphale was doing his very best to not fixate about sharing a bottle of an admittedly very nice 1921 Chateaunuf-du-Pape. And failing.

Aziraphale was most assuredly, decidedly, and pointedly not not thinking about the wet lip of the bottle and how it had momentarily been up against Crowley’s thin mouth and perhaps, Heaven forbid, his tongue. (What if he had just reflexively swiped his tongue along the rim of it, tasting Aziraphale’s panicked saliva mixing with the vintage of warm summer fermented French grapes?) He was conscientiously trying to not think about how the demon did not even wipe the bottle to hand it off to him for that first switch off, setting the precedent, or about how their fingers brushed just for a moment when switching back and forth. Both of them seemed incapable of accepting the bottle at any other point than exactly where the other was grabbing it.

And the biggest problem was, Aziraphale thought as he took another swig (maybe a bit bigger this time as his thoughts ran away from him), he was very intentionally pulling from the bottle at the very exact spot that Crowley was drinking. And out of all the non-typically angelic things that he had done that day, for some reason this seemed to be the most scandalous. But Crowley didn’t react as if he noticed. 

But then, Aziraphale reflected as he glanced at Crowley’s too-cool-for-school sprawl on the bench, perhaps he did. The bouncing knee and periodic glancing up for the bus communicated unspoken nerves. Aziraphale knew most of Crowley’s nervous ticks. You tend to pick up on those types of things after knowing someone for a few years.

Eventually a delivery man came, a sword was returned, and their sleeping arrangements were discussed. It looked like Aziraphale was staying at Crowley’s flat for the night.

Well. 

Aziraphale took another hurried drink from the bottle before returning it to Crowley as they boarded the bus. This was certainly shaping up to be a night. 

The bright tungsten lights of the bus assaulted their senses as they clambered on. Aziraphale paid for them both, making small talk about the weather with the driver as Crowley sauntered further into the bus, open bottle of wine swinging loosely from his dangling finger tips. The few people on the bus glanced up as the demon walked (well, that was a generous word for it, wasn’t it?) to an empty seat, and an older woman even rolled her eyes when she saw the open container of alcohol. 

Aziraphale shuffled forward in a fussy flurry of off-white, blessing the woman quickly for her troubles without a second thought, and approached Crowley’s seat just as the bus lurched forward. His body swayed with the inertia of the movement, making him almost stumble if he hadn’t grabbed onto the ever so helpful bar. He rather ungracefully sat down next to Crowley, closer than they had ever sat before. The demon’s head turned slightly in faint surprise; his eyebrows imperceptibly raised. Aziraphale raised his eyebrows in response. Crowley turned his attention back towards the window, resting the bottle of wine on his knee. 

As the bus meandered along its route, not knowing that it would soon be rerouted, Aziraphale did his very best to not think about his and Crowley’s thighs touching. It was nearly impossible in these tight quarters, between his full thighs and Crowley’s penchant to do what he had heard to be referred to as a “man spread”, as if a wide-legged stance could be smeared on a sandwich. 

Aziraphale licked his lips, looking down at their legs, then darted his gaze towards something less, well, alluring. The bus’s seat upholstery was quite suited for this pursuit. A garish combination of bright and dark blue with red and yellow splotches was almost impressionistic in its rendering but missing the mark completely. The quality of the fabric was an awful scratchy combination of being somehow easy to clean but simultaneously holding on to everything that was ever spilled onto it ever. Aziraphale grimaced. He shifted slightly, in hopes to lift whatever stains were surely seeping into his 52-year old trousers, but the action only reminded him that his and Crowley’s thighs were _still_ touching. 

He sighed and blinked repeatedly into the stupidly bright lights (didn’t they usually dim at this time at night?), asking the emergency exit on the ceiling of the bus to give him strength. 

There was a sloshing sound, signaling that Crowley had taken a swig of the wine. 

“Now really,” Aziraphale tutted, briefly glancing at his demonic companion before steadfastly staring straight forward again. 

Crowley did that frowning thing that was more questioning and defensive than remorseful. “What?”

Another put-upon huff. “You and I both know that consuming alcohol on public transportation is frowned upon, and possibly illegal.” 

“Yeah, no one cares,” Crowley said, taking another swig as if that were to prove his point, “plus we just saved the world. We deserve it.” He offered the bottle again to Aziraphale, jiggling it a little bit as if the sound of the wine splashing inside would make it more enticing or permissible.

If he were a lesser man, Aziraphale might have rolled his eyes. Instead his lips drew into a thin line and he tilted his head pointedly, eying Crowley’s sunglasses sternly. 

Crowley shook the bottle again in offering without breaking eye contact. 

To say that Aziraphale snatched the bottle out of Crowley’s hand would be unkind, but also accurate. Aziraphale’s following gulp was even less delicate and decidedly set the pace for their transit happy hour.

The next twenty minutes they spent drinking a bottle of a nearly priceless vintage wine that never emptied through the bus’s normal route. During the scheduled arrivals and departures, the occult and ethereal entities seemed to be playing a mutually agreed-upon game that was entitled, “Talk About Anything Other Than Today and Tomorrow”. Not a super catchy name, but it did the trick. They also unanimously decided to play the game “Let’s Get Pissed”, which had a slightly catchier name. 

“What do you mean you’ve never seen it?” Crowley cried out incredulously. “At least tell me that you _read_ it. It is a book, you know.”

“My dear boy, you know I would no sooner read that tripe before reading that _other_ book about vampires that was so popular a few years back,” Aziraphale shook his head, drinking some more wine. He was finally getting pleasantly buzzed. “Did you know someone actually asked me for that book? As if I looked like a proprietor of bestsellers.” 

“But the film has the costumes,” Crowley continued as if Aziraphale hadn’t said anything, “You would _love_ the costumes, angel.” He grabbed the bottle and gesticulated his point wildly with it. “The froo-froo foppish 18th century costumes that you love. All, all—” he took a drink from the bottle, “ornate and whatever.” 

Aziraphale did roll his eyes this time. “There are plenty of other films with ost—oste— ornate costumes, I don’t need to waste my time on that one.”

Crowley’s eyes lit up while taking another sip. “Mmm!” He tore the bottle away from his mouth and passed it back to Aziraphale. “But the setting! None of those others are set in New Orleans. I know how much you enjoyed the city with its—with its cuisine—" he said the word ‘cuisine’ with a posh lilt and a bit of a sneer, “—you loved the beignets. And the seafood.”

“The beignets _are_ lovely,” Aziraphale breathily conceded with a tilt of his head and a swig of the bottle, “but not worth subjecting myself to two hours of poorly-written rubbish.” 

Crowley grumbled something incomprehensible with a wobble of his head and looked out the window momentarily. 

“Vampires bats, though, are real.” Crowley stated, as if announcing some grave truth. 

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement. 

“Did you know that they barfed blood into each other’s mouths?” 

Aziraphale almost spat out his wine. “What?” 

Crowley had a faraway look on his face. “Yeah, makes you wonder what the heaven She was thinking when she whipped that one up.” He took the wine from Aziraphale’s stunned hands. 

“They do not!” Aziraphale was still fixated on the puking blood point, which, fair enough. “That’s disgusting!”

“They do,” Crowley argued, trying to nod his head while drinking from the bottle. “They do it when they uh, when the little guys can’t find food. The other bats help ‘em out. They just—” and he imitated the motion. 

Aziraphale scrunched up his face. “That is, I suppose, nice of the bats in an awful sort of way, but I honestly did not need the visual.” 

Crowley seemed rather pleased with himself. “If I wanted to add a prop to the visual,” he held up the Chateaunuf-du-Pape, “I would have—”

“Don’t you dare!” Aziraphale grabbed it back. He gave Crowley a look that suggested wasting the wine was worse blasphemy than doubting the Almighty’s decision on making vampire bats, not that he would have ever said such a thing out loud.

“Well, it’s not much different than what we’re doing now. You wouldn’t dare waste a miracle to whip up your own bottle of some fairly deserved congratulatory wine.” 

“I don’t see how this can be compared to regurgitating blood,” Aziraphale said, still looking mildly disturbed at this new piece of information.

Crowley scoffed. “Not the puking blood part, the uh, uh,” he gestured between the two of them, “sharing bit.” 

They both paused, looking at one another. The bus was now empty and had, unknowingly to the driver, changed over into their personal express charter bus back to Mayfair. The lights flickered into a more subdued setting, and the occasional streetlight flashed a muted, yellow light across their features. The wet rim of the wine bottle gleamed briefly with the light. The bus’s engine hummed loudly in an invasive, white noise sort of way that was somehow both distracting and calming. The occasional car passed their bus on the highway, breaking up the monotonous sound of the bus and their breathing.

Aziraphale swallowed. “Crowley, I—”

“Don’t say it,” Crowley hissed.

“You didn’t even know what I was going to say!” 

“Something sentimental, you’ve got it written all over your face.” He gestured his hand around in a circle, making Aziraphale flinch. 

“I just wanted to thank—” 

Another car passed them on the road, and Aziraphale could see Crowley’s eyes, backlit through the passing headlights, for a fleeting moment. It was too quick to make out any emotion, but he knew that he was staring at him intensely. Something about that look made Aziraphale abort his sentiments and lose his breath. His heart was suddenly pounding hard in his chest, throat, and ears, and he felt lightheaded with it. 

The unspoken thing between them was rearing its head, as it tended to do periodically. Usually a look over dinner or in the back of the bookshop had them pause in conversation, swallow in their throats and eyes dart over each other’s faces, tension and anticipation mounting, only to have one of them look away. It was a constant in their lives, as sure and consistent as one another’s company. Tonight, however, tonight was different. 

Crowley moved to grab the bottle. Aziraphale went to meet him halfway, relieved to have a task and a way to release this tension, but instead of grabbing the bottle, Crowley’s hand tentatively covered his hand. The light touch, frightened and brave, settled coolly over the back of his hand. Crowley’s long pinky twitched and grazed the back of Aziraphale’s ring, and his palm settled over Aziraphale’s meticulously manicured fingers. 

Aziraphale’s jaw was vibrating and his throat was tightening up. A part of his brain was screaming _‘What does this mean what does this mean’_ and another part knew exactly what this meant. It meant that although the world didn’t end, he and Crowley just might tomorrow. 

Crowley’s free hand moved the now empty wine bottle to the floor. His fingers tickled the back of Aziraphale’s wrist in a maddening way, and then delicately moved in the valley of his hand towards the center of his palm. It was agonizing, it was torturous, it was perfect. 

He watched Crowley lick his stained lips quickly and swallow as he traced senseless patterns over the sensitive skin of his palm. Aziraphale desperately wished he had a funny quip about palm reading or some sort, but all he felt was desperate. His left hand, left unmoored in this unexpected development, clenched nearly painfully on his thigh as his mind screamed about what to do next, if there was a next, or if there ever would be a next. 

The bus slammed into a pothole loudly, jostling the exit windows and its only two passengers out of their reverie and closer together. 

The moment broke, Aziraphale let out a breath he had been holding the entire time. 

“Well, I’d say that that was ineffable,” he said with a flighty smile and feathery laugh.

Something crossed over Crowley’s face. Aziraphale only had a moment to debate on what it was before Crowley kissed him. 

Oh.

It might have been the air conditioning clicking back on, or maybe it was the blood rushing in his brain, but some whooshing sound was in Aziraphale’s ears. His mind was blissfully blank for the first time in eons and he didn’t know what to do with his hands. 

Crowley pulled back, breathing hard despite that the kiss only lasted about three seconds. 

“I’m sorry, angel, I—”

Oh no, that won’t do. Aziraphale brought his hands up to Crowley’s face and kissed him again. 

This time Aziraphale categorized the sensations. The first thing he noticed was that Crowley’s face had just the hint of a beard. Not something he could even see very well, but with his hands on his face he could feel the very slight delicious scrape of it. So curious he decided his corporation to have it. 

The second thing he noticed was Crowley’s nasally gasp when he was kissed. Good lord, he’d give anything to hear that every day. He didn’t think he could do much to surprise the old serpent after 6,000 years, but here we are. 

The last thing he noticed before his observational skills went to shit was how much more intentional this kiss was. It seemed to be going somewhere, like it had a destination. Their lips and mouths were more open, more malleable, as they broke apart and came together again and again. Their heads moved incrementally each time to get a better angle, better room, more heat. It seemed like they both agreed that closer was indeed the most logical next step, as Crowley snaked his arm around Aziraphale’s waist and grabbed his coat lapel.

Their mouths opened wider to allow the first touch of tongues, playful and flirty in their teasing strokes and swipes, before delving into something heavier and firmer. Their spit-slick bottlemouth lips slid together in uncoordinated, perfect movements as they learned something new about one another. They hit more potholes, jangled along some uneven pavement, but neither of them noticed. Aziraphale’s hands had wandered into Crowley’s hair, combing and weaving and never staying in one place too long. Finally given a purpose, his hands were happy to move wherever they pleased, and they apparently wished to smooth their way down Crowley’s torso next, squeezing around his ribs and abdomen. 

Crowley jumped and fidgeted, delightfully responsive to Aziraphale’s touch. His hands leapt up to undo Aziraphale’s bowtie, but instead loosening it he turned it into a tight knot halfway off his neck. Aziraphale snickered as his delighted hands tiptoed down Crowley’s waist to settle on his (quite literally) damned hips. 

“Shit, shit, shit,” Crowley hissed, but whether it was in response to the bow tie or Aziraphale’s wandering hands was unclear. Aziraphale squeezed his hips anyway and was rewarded with another spasm.

Aziraphale made a contemplative hum and inched his hands downwards, thumbs dipping into the grooves between Crowley’s thighs and hips. Taught, corded muscle twitched under him, while the unforgiving hip bone dug pleasantly in the palm of his hand. Crowley made some aborted movements and choked off noises in the back of his throat as he clumsily battled with Aziraphale’s top two buttons. 

Crowley broke off their increasingly frantic kissing to drop little kisses along Aziraphale’s jaw, who in response tilted his chin up and over to give him better access. The soft, quick kisses turned into little nips the further Crowley travelled down to the juncture between his neck and shoulder.

“Oh my,” Aziraphale breathed, feeling Crowley’s teeth scrape lightly at his skin before planting a wet, softly sucking kiss above his collar bone. Crowley’s hands swooped down to the top of Aziraphale’s trousers, pushing up the worn velvet waistcoat and skirting along the edge of the wool in search of the button. When he reached the braces clasps, he paused and looked up at Aziraphale from his slightly hunched over position. 

“Br-braces?” He said incredulously, with an eyebrow raised and his hair slightly mussed. 

“What else am I to wear with this ensemble?” Aziraphale asked, wondering why on Earth that, of all things, gave him pause. “A belt would be preposterous.” 

Crowley’s mouth moved like it was going to say several things and his glasses slid a bit down his nose, showing wide eyes that weren’t exactly upset. Aziraphale felt a movement from the demon’s tight trousers and had to bite back a smirk.

“’Sjust a bit, uh,” Crowley cleared his throat and scrunched his nose quickly, “kinky.” 

“The braces.” 

“Yyyyeah.”

Aziraphale managed to look both put out and pleased at the same time. “My dear boy, correct me if I’m wrong, but we’re about to perform mutual masturbation on a public transit bus. My braces are the least ‘kinky’ thing we’ve got going on right now.” 

Crowley made a noise that was surely several consonants strung together before launching himself into another kiss. Aziraphale did not complain, but because he was a bit of a bastard, needed to clarify the situation. While fiddling with the button to Crowley’s trousers. 

“That _is_ what you were intending, correct?”

“Hnnnnng,” Crowley said. 

“Mm, I want to hear you say it.” Aziraphale’s voice practically purred, and even he could admit to himself that he sounded smug. 

“Why do you have to do this now?” Crowley whined through his teeth.

Aziraphale stopped playing with the button to grasp at Crowley’s chin and lift his gaze to meet his own. “Because I’ve waited an awfully long time for this, and I need to know that this is something you want.”

Something about Aziraphale’s serious look punched the air out of Crowley’s lungs. “Fuck,” he breathed, blinking probably for the first time since they got on the bus, “fuck yes.” 

Aziraphale’s face radiated with his smile, both pleased and mischievous. “Excellent,” he said, and he kissed Crowley again.

Their shaky, unsteady exhales and inhales provided the soundtrack as they tackled and fumbled with one another’s trouser fastenings. Aziraphale realized it would probably be a lot easier if they undid their own, but where would the fun be in that? 

He undid Crowley’s zip, and had to glance down. 

“Why…?”

Crowley stopped in his trek along Aziraphale’s underwear. “Hm?”

Aziraphale shook his head minutely. “Why is your zipper so short? Is it stuck on something?” He experimentally tugged down again, only meeting resistance. 

Crowley grumbled something that vaguely sounded like “misogyny” before ducking to kiss Aziraphale again. 

Doing his best to kiss back while distracted by the curiously short zipper, Aziraphale encountered another obstacle when he realized he could barely squeeze his hand into Crowley’s trousers with how tight they were around the hips. Crowley’s hand wandered easily beyond the waistband of Aziraphale’s underwear and to his cock without any trouble. Aziraphale took in a sharp inhale as Crowley’s hand wrapped around him, pulling lightly. 

Crowley continued stroking towards the top, focusing his maddening attention to the head as Aziraphale struggled with getting even an inch into his denim trousers. Eventually fed up, he broke away from their admittedly sloppy kiss. 

“You have the most ridiculous trousers,” he announced. He laid his forehead on the crook between Crowley’s shoulder and neck, and breathed heavily for a moment, relishing in the feeling of Crowley finally, _finally_ touching him. He bit his lip as Crowley swiped his thumb over the slit. 

“Giving up that easily, angel?” Crowley asked with a laugh. 

“You’re extremely distracting, and your trousers are impossible.” Aziraphale tried to sound stern, but it came off as breathless instead. 

Crowley kissed his temple, breathing in deeply before withdrawing his hand from Aziraphale’s trousers and shimmying his jeans down. He even took his cock out, forever the gentleman. 

Aziraphale beamed. “Thank you, my dear.” He continued to watch his face as he wrapped his hand around Crowley’s cock, and delighted in the shudder of pleasure that crossed his features. 

“That—hah, yeah,” Crowley struggled to maintain his composure as Aziraphale took a few experimental tugs, to see what made him squirm. Apparently full length, medium pressure did the trick. “Fffwah, sshhhh, yeah, mhm, yup, okay,” Crowley said, focusing his attention back to Aziraphale. 

After only a minute or so of rubbing up and down Crowley’s cock, there was a significant amount of precum bubbling over. Aziraphale used it to his advantage, smearing whatever he had available down Crowley’s length. “So wet already, what a delight,” Aziraphale murmured into his ear. Crowley jerked and breathed out sharply.

“You can’t—you can’t just say things like that, angel,” He rested their foreheads together and panted slightly. 

“Why not? I’m just making an observation,” Aziraphale pointed out. 

“It’s unfair!” He hiccupped as even more precum dribbled out, lubricating him even further. 

“What’s unfair is that you were gifted with this bounty of lubricant, my dear, while I was not,” Aziraphale said, and then followed it up with, “not to say you’re not doing a commendable job, my dear.” 

“Commendable—” Crowley made a few noises before snapping his free fingers and suddenly both of their hands were slick. 

Aziraphale’s hips jerked into Crowley’s now slippery grip. “Oh goodness, that is—!” 

Crowley kissed away whatever adjective was or wasn’t on the tip of Aziraphale’s tongue. 

As the bus turned off the exit to head into Mayfair proper, an angel and a demon furiously jerked each other off with miraculous slick cocks in the back of the bus. They were blessedly far away enough from the driver for him to see them but too damn loud for that distance to even matter.

“Shit, angel, I-I never knew that you would—” Crowley barely held back a keen as Aziraphale increased the tightness, “you’d be willing to—to—”

“To jerk you off? Oh, my dear, I told you that I’ve,” Aziraphale bit his lip as Crowley focused more of his attention to his head, “I’ve thought about this for, ah, years.”

Crowley panted into Aziraphale’s mouth. “So—so have I, shit, angel, so have I.” 

Aziraphale tried to kiss his mouth, but mostly got teeth. “We’ve been such idiots, Crowley.” 

Crowley trembled. “Fuck, please say that again?” 

“That we’ve been idiots?” 

Crowley threw off his sunglasses to look Aziraphale in the eyes. “My name.” 

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighed, his breath becoming shallower and quicker, “Yes, Crowley, my dearest.” 

Crowley’s hand threaded into Aziraphale’s hair as he whimpered, eyes burrowing into him. “Been wanting this for so long,” his hair and eyes wild, searching Aziraphale’s face, “wanting you for so long, Aziraphale.” 

Hearing his name spoken that way out of that mouth honestly did something for him. Aziraphale spasmed and bit back a shout, feeling his orgasm cresting up and up. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck!” He hissed, cursing for the third, fourth, and fifth time that day. 

Crowley’s shocked and aroused gasp was the only precursor to his orgasm. They grasped at one another in bruising grips, feeding off the pleasure in the other. Aziraphale felt his back arch and tried his hardest to keep his eyes open to watch Crowley, but the bliss was blinding in its intensity. Cum shot onto his waistcoat and jacket, clinging to the buttons and the remaining plush velvet. Crowley’s hips gyrated off of the seat, almost making Aziraphale lose his grip, with Crowley’s spend further slicking up his hand. 

The wet, soaked slapping of skin on skin was sloppy and almost excessive, and somehow spurned another weak wave of orgasm from Aziraphale. He managed to open his eyes as his pleasure ebbed from his body, taking in the sight of Crowley’s flushed face and shiny, slack mouth. 

Aziraphale rested his head on Crowley’s shoulder as they caught their breath. He basked in this ability to be able to be near Crowley. He breathed in his smokey, sharp scent with a flutter of his eyelashes and sighed contentedly into his bony collar bone. 

As his heart rate slowly lowered to its normal pace, he opened his eyes and took in the familiar sights of London as they neared Crowley’s residence. The passing businesses catering to nightlife were vibrant and bustling, with people of all types enjoying the gorgeous summer evening, unknowing of what just occurred on an airfield tarmac in Tadfield. The looming question of what to do with Agnes Nutter’s prophecy crept into his thoughts again, and his ideas came up short on how to interpret it.

“Ghh,” Crowley said, nuzzling into Aziraphale’s hair. “Wow. So that was a thing.” 

Despite his suddenly sober mood, Aziraphale chuckled. “Mm, yes, quite.” 

Noticing that they were less than five minutes away from Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale sighed resignedly and peeled himself away to sit up straighter and set his clothing right. Seeing the cum cooling on his jacket and waistcoat, he scoffed. “So much for keeping my effects in tip-top condition,” he mumbled remorsefully. He patted his clean hand around his jacket for his handkerchief. 

Crowley smiled indulgently at him before snapping his clean fingers. The offending cum vanished. “Do you honestly forget that we’re occult beings?”

Aziraphale reflexively bit his lip to hide a smile. He glanced up at Crowley through his lashes and back down to his hands to fold up his handkerchief again. “Thank you, my dear. But don’t you worry about Hell’s accounting books with miracles like that?”

Crowley barked out a laugh as he put his sunglasses back on. “What are they going to do, fire me?” 

To call it divine inspiration would have been highly inaccurate and disingenuous to Crowley’s hellish nature. But Aziraphale was suddenly struck by an epiphany that could possibly save their lives.

“Perhaps not,” Aziraphale said, a plan rapidly forming in his head as he fished out Agnes Nutter’s last prophecy, “but they might fire _me_.” 

Crowley shot him a confused look with his eyebrows furrowed. “What do you—” 

The bus stopped, interrupting Crowley and momentarily diverting their attention. They were idling outside Crowley’s building, its Oxford signage drawing curious looks from pedestrians walking on the sidewalk. 

Aziraphale pocketed the prophecy, stood up, and walked towards the exit. “I just had an idea that might possibly get us through tomorrow, if our suspicions about Heaven and Hell are correct.” He looked over his shoulder at Crowley as he meandered down the aisle behind him, holding the empty bottle. “I hope you’ve got a bit of wine still back in your flat. Perhaps that Argentinian blend, whatever it was called, that you brought over the other week? I wouldn’t mind a night cap.”

Crowley grinned. “’Course, angel. And this time we’ll have proper glasses.” 

A hefty tip miraculously landed into the confused driver’s pocket as the angel and demon disembarked the bus, with a beatific smile from Aziraphale and a nod from Crowley.

The driver sniffed and pulled a face. “Kinky bastards,” he muttered as he closed the doors and pulled away to make his way back to Oxford.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay but vampire bats do exist and they do barf blood into each other's mouths: https://www.nationalgeographic.com/news/2015/11/151117-vampire-bats-blood-food-science-animals/
> 
> Talk to me on Dumblr: nerdythangs


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